


The Second Time

by sherlockian4evr



Series: Times of Need [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drug Addiction, Gen, Parental Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A black mood has descended on Sherlock. For the second time, he seeks out Lestrade for help.</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's tagged, but trigger warning for brief mention of drugs.

Sherlock can feel it pressing down on him, the darkness, the black mood - it had only been a matter of time before it happened. Living here with Mycroft is bad enough, but he can't bear the thought of his brother coming home and finding him shaking and broken, not again. He lays there, on the sofa, dreading the moment Mycroft comes through the door to find him like this. Finally, that thought goads him to get up and walk to his bedroom.

The detective digs out a pair of jeans and an old hoodie and puts them on. Kneeling, he fishes around under his bed and finds some old trainers and dons them. It's not hard, after that, to flee Mycroft's home. He evades both the CCTV network and the guard across the way and, in just a few moments, he's walking the streets of London safely anonymous.

The sun is shining and birds are singing, but all Sherlock sees is grey, all he hears are his own miserable thoughts. He ducks into an alleyway to get away from the crowd that is growing on the streets and leans heavily against a rough brick wall.

If only he could cry! Sherlock's read that crying is supposed to be cathartic. What he wouldn't give to spill out his pain in hot, burning tears, but he's never cried, not even as a child. He's a sociopath, that's what the doctors had said just before Mummy called them idiots and Father declared them incompetent. The doctor's were right, if not, why can't he cry?

The detective slides down the wall, his hoody riding up and his back scraping against the rough brick - he doesn't care, barely even notices the physical pain. He can't cry, but there is another path to relief. A quick fix would ease the pain, at least for a little while. Sherlock makes a tight fist and his fingernails did into his palm, drawing blood. Is it worth it, giving up everything he's working for? He shakes his head.

From experience, he knows that, if he can get through the next three days, the blackness will lift. It won't go away entirely, this heavy depression, but it will be bearable. Three days. He'll never make it that long, not on his own.

Sherlock doesn't call Mycroft, that is never an option. He doesn't call his parents either, he doesn't want to break their hearts again. There's no one. No one. He's alone.

Sherlock looks up at the sound of a siren and sees a police car pass by the end of the alley. Without thinking about it, he pulls out his phone and dials. Someone picks up on the other end and says hello. The detective tries to talk, but can't, not at first. The voice says hello again.

"Lestrade," the broken man chokes out. "I can't... I need..."

"Sherlock?" Greg asks, "What's wrong? Where are you?"

Even in this state, Sherlock can deduce Lestrade's actions - he's shoving folders into his desk drawers, locking them and grabbing his keys. 

"Please, Lestrade." The young man can't manage more.

"I'm on my way," Greg reassures. "Just tell me where you are."

Sherlock pulls out his mental map of London. It's not perfect, not yet, he's still learning the backways and rooftops, but it's adequate to this task. He tellls Lestrade how to find him. His hand drops, but he doesn't hang up. The detective can hear the other man talking to him, distant and faint.

"Don't you ring off, Sherlock. Keep talking. Observe. What do you see around you?" Lestrade sounds calm, but worried as he issues instructions.

Sherlock lifts the mobile to his ear and obeys. He looks around and makes deduction after deduction. Every time he falters, Greg asks a question to get him talking again. Finally, a cruiser pulls into the alleyway and comes to a halt. Lestrade climbs out of it, phone still in hand. He crouches down in front of Sherlock and gives him a weak smile.

"You look like hell, son," he notes.

The young man returns Lestrade's smile with a broken one of his own. He can't manage any more words, he'd used them all on the phone earlier.

Greg reaches out a hand and waits for Sherlock to take it. "Come on, let's get you out of here."

"Where?" It's only one word, but Sherlock gets it out.

Lestrade sighs. "You don't need to be alone. Can I call someone? Family, friend? Take you there?"

The detective shakes his head. 

"Of course not." Greg sighs. "My family is out of town for the week. You'll come home with me." There's no room for argument in Lestrade's words.

Sherlock takes his hand and Greg helps him to his feet and into the cruiser. The silence between them isn't comfortable, but it's not painful. It fills the spaces, though, and starts to push the blackness away.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg unlocks his front door and gestures for Sherlock to enter. The young man does, but comes to a stand still in the front entryway. "Living room's through there," Greg says with a nod in its general direction. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks. He's got water, juice and can make tea or coffee if Sherlock wants. The only response he gets is a small shake of the head. He sighs. "Well, I'm thirsty, be right back."

The moment Sherlock is left alone, he gets the strangest feeling. It's as if nothing exists outside this small space. The world beyond these walls feels as though it's just a fake memory dumped inside his head. He's still standing there, feeling disconnected when Greg returns, a glass of water in hand.

"Come on, Sherlock, you can't stand there all night." Greg's voice is gentle, but not to be ignored. It's the voice of a father who will brook no nonsense.

For some reason, the young man finds himself responding. He finally moves towards the living room, turning his back to Lestrade. He hears a small gasp behind him then Greg's soft, "God dammit." Sherlock turns, vaguely curious, but too wrung out to really care.

Greg shakes his head. "Christ, Sherlock. I should have noticed before, that's got to hurt." He lifts his hand to point in Sherlock's direction.

The young man wrinkles his brow, uncertain what Lestrade is going on about, then a stinging pain registers along the length of his back. Now he remembers scraping it as he slid down the wall in the alley. it hadn't mattered. It doesn't matter. What's a bit of skin? At worst, his body is his greatest weakness, drawing him to the pleasures of the flesh. At best, it's what? Transport. Yes, transport. That's all it is, all it can ever be. He looks at Lestrade. "It's just transport."

Greg rolls his eyes. "Get that shirt off. I'll get my kit." He walks to the loo and fetches the first aid kit, muttering about the stupidity of kids in general and the young man in the living room in particular. He can't help it, Sherlock may be in his late twenties, but he's still so frail from his past drug use and the broken way he looks makes him seem so much younger to Lestrade. He returns to the living room and sits on the sofa where Sherlock has perched, his bloodied hoodie in his lap. "Well, it could be worse," Greg comments, not expecting a response and not being disappointed. He starts cleaning the scrapes, applying antiseptic and here and there a plaster. He sighs, Sherlock has been entirely too quiet since he picked him up. Greg isn't one to pry, but he needs to know what's set this off. He retreats to a chair that faces the sofa and regards the bedraggled young man.

Sherlock is aware of the scrutiny and pulls his knees up to tuck them beneath his chin. He wraps his arms around his legs protectively, becoming a compact ball of angst.

Lestrade's not one to skirt the subject, so asks directly, "What's brought this on?"

Sherlock looks away, seemingly ashamed.

"Was it the drugs?" Greg sighs. The kid's been clean for a while, now, but he knows the craving never goes away, not entirely.

"It's not always about drugs," Sherlock spits, his voice full of venom. He cringes, hating the way he sounds. His mobile rings and he throws it across the room with enough force that it breaks. "Why won't he leave me alone!" Sherlock's voice breaks on the end of his shout and he falls over on his side, looking more like a lost child than ever before.

Lestrade is angry. He's beyond angry, he's livid. "Has someone hurt you Sherlock? Been abusing you?" He winces. The kid's proud, he should probably have phrased that differently. "Look, even the best of us can be tricked..."

Sherlock's shoulders are shaking. Greg starts to go to him, thinking that Sherlock is actually crying, then he realises that the kid is laughing. It's gallows humour he's sure, but he's laughing.

"It's my brother," Sherlock gasps out and his brief mirth is dying down to be replaced by clear bitterness. "He's the one that put me in rehab. Now he watches me constantly. It's smothering. I can't even have a nervous breakdown in peace." He smiles sardonically. "How can I tell him the world's gone black and pointless without him locking me away again?" In a quieter tone he murmurs, "I can't be locked away again."

Greg looks at Sherlock feeling lost. The only thing certain in his mind is the fact he will be there for the young man, whatever that entails.


	3. Chapter 3

Apparently what Sherlock needs is silence. The kid's been staring at the same location on the wall for at least twenty minutes. Greg is starting to feel the pressure of all that silence. He turns on the telly and skips from channel to channel, trying to find something that doesn't require too much brainpower, something that doesn't stir emotions. He settles on a documentary about penguins. While Greg stares at the telly, he thinks. Sherlock might resent his brother, but shouldn't the man at least be told that his brother is safe?

"No," Sherlock growls, then rolls over to face the back of the sofa. "He'll already know anyway."

Greg shifts in his seat, wondering what the hell the kid means by that.

Sitting up, the young man looks at Lestrade. He sighs, realising the futility of everything he's done that day. "How long have we been here?" Sherlock sighs again, berating himself for loosing track of time.

"Hmm," Greg glances at his watch. "Almost an hour. Why?" He's expecting some scathing remark from the kid or, at the very least, a cutting glance. What he doesn't expect is for Sherlock to sag even more than he had been already.

"My brother will be here soon," Sherlock says, his voice has gone flat and lifeless.

Greg starts to get concerned, that's the second hint that all is not normal where this brother is concerned. He opens his mouth to ask... something, but words fail him.

"No, he's not a criminal mastermind and he's not got connections to the underground." Sherlock pulls his legs up to his chest, thinking it would almost be easier if Mycroft were some petty criminal.

"Then, how..." Greg's words are cut off as he sees the look on Sherlock's face.

"He's the British Government, or will be within two years."

The young man's words come out bitter and Greg is starting to get nervous. What has he got himself into? He hesitates, but he has to make the offer. "I won't let him take you, if you don't want to go."

The way Sherlock laughs at that is disturbing, bitter. "Don't get in his way. I'm not worth it."

Greg's about to come back with a rejoinder when there's a knock at the door. Apparently the kid wasn't joking. Even as Greg stands, Sherlock curls up on the sofa again, laying on his side.

A fair amount of trepidation is making itself known to Lestrade as he stands and walks to the door. He braces himself, not knowing what to expect when he opens it.

Without waiting for an invitation, Mycroft tries to step into Greg's home, umbrella first, but Greg surprises him by stepping into his space and forcing him back. He closes the door behind himself and takes stock of the man before him. This brother looks to be a poncy bastard, if Greg's any judge of people.

"Sergeant Lestrade," Mycroft says, tilting his head slightly. He levels an observant gaze at Greg, taking in all the little details that didn't appear on the report he had received on the man. "I believe my brother is inside. I'm here to take him home."

"It's not that simple," Greg responds. Maybe he's being swayed by Sherlock's earlier words, but he's taken an instant dislike to this man. "I think we need to talk first."

Mycroft narrows his eyes as he reconsiders his approach. This man is fairly radiating a fierce protectiveness for Sherlock. It would do better to acquire him as an ally than to alienate him. "Please, Sergeant. I worry about him. Constantly." He pauses here for effect. "I'm certain you know why."

Greg shoves his hands in his pockets, but doesn't look away. He finds he's not intimidated by the man, despite expecting to be. Perhaps spending time with Sherlock on cases the last few months has been good for him, made him impervious to raptor-like gazes and the like. "Yes, but he needs his freedom, space to succeed or fail on his own. I get the impression you're smothering him, and he's not handling that well."

"Am I supposed to let him return to drugs, Sergeant? Turn a blind eye while he destroys himself." Mycroft's voice has gone cold. How dare this man lecture him where Sherlock is concerned!

Greg shakes his head. "He says this isn't about the drugs."

"What do you know? Sherlock's been fighting depression since he turned 14." Mycroft clamps down on his self control, reminding himself that he wants this man as an ally. "He turned to drugs to fend it off. I assure you, he's fighting a craving as we speak."

Greg's entire posture softens in understanding - Sherlock's brother is afraid. "But you have to see that you can't fight it for him, no matter how much you want to."

Mycroft is the one that looks away. He knows Greg is correct, but it's a bitter knowledge and rankles fiercely. He looks back at the other man. "Perhaps we should start again." Mycroft holds out his hand. "Allow me to introduce myself, I'm Mycroft Holmes."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock buries his head in his arms. He can barely hear the voices of Mycroft and Lestrade coming from the other side of the closed door, but he can't make out their words. He doesn't need to. His brother is threatening Lestrade, obviously, and there's no way the man will be able to stand up to him. Nobody can. Mycroft is like a force of nature that way, sweeping resistance aside and leaving compliance in his wake.

A broken moan reaches Sherlock's ears and to his horror he realises it is his own. He hears it again and this time he doesn't care. His moans come faster and louder until they become great gasping vocalisations of pain. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want to be locked away for his safety. If Mycroft would just go away.

The door opens and Sherlock swallows his groans. This is it, his last moments of freedom, even if they are miserable and pointless.

Mycroft stops just inside the door, waiting, hoping for Sherlock to spit his customary 'piss off' in his direction, but his brother doesn't. He wants to go to him, scoop him up in a hug and comfort him, but that's not something the brothers do. Not for the first time, he wishes they did. All he can do is watch as this relative stranger approaches his brother and begins to talk.

Greg crouches down by the sofa, his voice gentle. "Sherlock." The young man doesn't uncover his head or acknowledge that he has spoken. "Come on, son, I need you to look at me. Mycroft's said you can stay with me a few days if that's what you want, but you need to tell us if it is. Come on, that's it." He breathes a sigh of relief as the kid uncurls and sits up.

The black feeling lightens momentarily to grey and Sherlock can breathe easier. He tries to say that, yes, of course he wants to stay here, but he can't get the words out despite the air flowing easier through his lungs. His hands fly to his hair and he tugs on it. If he can just focus on something besides his ridiculous emotions, he'll be able to talk, he knows it.

Greg's heart aches seeing his young friend in so much pain and he grabs Sherlock's wrists. "Hey, now, Sherlock. None of that. All we need is one word. Yes or no."

Sherlock calms, feeling Lestrade's firm grip on his wrists. It's something concrete that anchors him. He manages to whisper, "Yes."

He's amazed when Greg smiles at him and tells him, "Right. There's that decided then."

From by the door, Mycroft nods to Lestrade. The other man has promised to be there for Sherlock and to phone if things get worse. It's a risk and they both know it. If things go pear shaped, it's Mycroft's brother who will pay the price. Still, sending Sherlock away would probably kill his brother at this point and Mycroft knows he's ill equipped to be of help. It's painful, but he makes himself take his leave. "Sherlock... be well," He finishes lamely and steps out the door.

Suddenly, Greg is terrified. He understands exactly what he's got himself into. If he fails Sherlock... He gives himself a shake and belatedly realises he's still holding the kid's wrists. He lets them go and is distressed when Sherlock's hands shoot directly to his hair once again and begin tugging. He needs to find a distraction for him.

Sherlock barely registers when Lestrade stands and walks away. The greyness is getting darker. He lets his hands fall to his lap, surrendering for the moment. The next thing he knows, a small cube is being placed in his hand. It's approximately 2.25" on a side with 9 coloured squares on each side. The colours don't appear to be in any coherent order.

Greg points at the cube. "If you need something to do with your hands, fix that. Don't rip your hair out by the roots." He knows it's not much of a distraction, but it works with his daughter. He'll have to find something else to use on a longer term basis.

Quietly, almost so softly Lestrade can't hear it, Sherlock asks, "What is it?"

Greg actually laughs. This kid is a genius and he's never seen a Rubik's Cube. He explains what it is. "It's a puzzle. You've got to rearrange the squares so each side is a solid colour."

Sherlock processes that for a moment and he looks at the piece of plastic in his hands. Automatically, he starts to calculate the number of possible combinations and has to retreat to his Mind Palace to do it. He soon arrives at the number 43,252,003,274,489,856,000. It would be daunting, but he can already see that a few simple repeated moves of the cube are all that is needed. Sherlock solves the puzzle within 4 minutes and tosses it towards Lestrade. Amazingly, his mind feels a bit clearer. He doesn't feel good, but he's not falling apart anymore.

Lestrade catches the cube and gawps at it."I've been trying to solve this bloody thing since '83 and you do it in 5 minutes."

"Less than 4," Sherlock corrects. "I could do it faster now."

"Right, right." Greg is still staring at the cube. "Bloody hell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As silly as it seems, a Rubik's Cube got me through a VERY dark night once, many years ago.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg wakes up on the fourth morning of Sherlock's stay to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom next door. He wipes his face with his hands, scrubbing at his eyes. Thank God, he thinks, the kid taking a shower is a sign that he's returning to life. Maybe he can even coax some food into him. He's seen him eat, well, he's seen him devour crisps and a couple of sticky pastries when a case went on for too long.

Climbing out of bed, Greg puts on a dressing gown and slippers and makes his way to the kitchen. His cousin (first cousin twice removed or second cousin once removed, Greg's not really sure) had visited from America a few months back. She had taught him to make pancakes. He pulls out the ingredients from the cupboard and the fridge and sets to work.

Sherlock wanders in. He's actually put on the clothes Greg left for him. Sitting at the kitchen table, he offers the older man a weak smile and a soft, "Morning." He thinks maybe he can eat something. He even wants to eat something, almost as much as he had wanted to get clean. It's actually rather surprising. The detective watches Greg cook, not with interest, but as a diversion to thinking. The black mood has shifted to grey, but it's still there. At least he can breathe again, think again. Sherlock shudders. Not being able to properly think was the worst of what he had been experiencing. It had been as if his mind had got caught in an endless loop.

Greg tips the pan and slips the pancakes onto the plates he had put on the side. He sits one in front of Sherlock and puts his own at his place at the table. "I've got coffee, if you'd like." At Sherlock's nod, he pours a cup for the kid. "I take mine black, but..."

"Black's fine," the detective says. Belatedly, he adds, "Thank you."

Greg and Sherlock eat in silence, but it's a different kind of silence than what has filled the air for the last few days. The older man finds himself feeling hopeful that just maybe this fucked up, brilliant kid will make it through. Greg wants to ask if Sherlock is feeling better, but he resists. He doesn’t want to push, so he waits for him to make the next move, to say something.

Finally, Sherlock finishes eating and pushes himself back from the table. He doesn’t get up though, just tries to remember where he last had his phone. “Lestrade, I seem to have misplaced my mobile.”

Greg swallows a sip of coffee. “Actually, you left it by the sofa. My charger fit it, so I plugged it in for you. It should be charged.”

With a nod, Sherlock says, “Thank you.” He gets up and goes to fetch his phone, then comes back. He’s expecting it to have several messages from his brother, but it doesn’t. That’s unexpected. He plays back the last three days and four nights. Sherlock doesn’t recall Greg getting a text message or even a phone call apart from the two calls from his daughter. That’s even more unexpected. “Mycroft hasn’t been checking up on me.”

Greg looks up, surprised by the look on Sherlock’s face. “No, Son. I told him you needed a bit a space. Maybe he’s taken it to heart.”

That’s… No. Mycroft doesn’t listen to anyone. Especially not some officer from the met. He shakes his head, because apparently he’s wrong. Sherlock types out a simple message.

_Ready to come home - SH_

There. Now his brother knows that he’s feeling better. For leaving him here with Lestrade, Sherlock decides he owes him that much, at least.

Sherlock bites his lip. How is he supposed to tell Lestrade thank you for something like this? Words are inadequate and, besides, it’s not something that he does, not on this scale. He clears his throat. “Ahem, Lestrade…”

Sensing, somehow, what the kid is trying to say, Greg smiles at him. “Don’t. You don’t have to. I know. Just… Be more spectacular than you already are at my next crime scene, yeah? Maybe don’t insult my team more than, say, six times. We’ll call it even.” He goes back to clearing the breakfast dishes, rinsing them off and putting them in the sink to wash later.

Sherlock’s phone pings. He reads Mycroft’s message.

_I’m glad to know that things have improved. A car is waiting outside to bring you home, if agreeable. – MH_

That brings a lump to Sherlock’s throat. It’s the first time in years that his brother has refrained from simply ordering him about. For that, he will limit his insults to Lestrade’s team at the next crime scene to three.

Sherlock tells Greg, “My brother has sent a car for me. He says it’s waiting outside.”

“Is that okay, Son? Is it what you want?” He hides it well, but the older man’s voice is tinged with concern.

“I… Yes. I think I’m ready to go home now. I don’t feel so…” Sherlock trails off, not knowing how to explain, but from the look on Greg’s face, he understands. He goes and gets his clothes, the ones he’s been wearing for nearly the last four days. When he gets back, he has them under his arm. “I’ll return these,” Sherlock says, plucking at the T-shirt he’s wearing.

Greg nods. “There’s no rush.” He’s not surprised when the kid goes straight to the door. Apparently his departure is going to be abrupt.

Sherlock pauses halfway through the door. This time, he manages to get the words out. “Thank you. For everything.” He closes the door and he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com)


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